On the first evening, we gathered outside the veranda of the ashram and sat cross-legged on the blankets that had been laid out for us. A group of Indian men played sitar, tabla and sang, then there was silence as we waited for the guru. The air felt charged and there was a stillness in the crowd that was tangible.
After a short time, there he was. An elderly silver-haired and bearded man, dressed in white. He had the kindest face I had ever seen and a great serenity about him. He sat on the chair that had been set out for him, accepted a garland of flowers put around his neck by a lady in sari, then he gazed at the crowd, raised his arm in greeting and smiled, and such a smile, full of joy. We beamed back at him.
When he began to speak, it was in Hindi, but it didn’t matter. The man exuded love and I was transfixed as layer after layer of pain and heartache melted away – my parents’ disappointment, Fi’s irritation, the loss of Jack, the separation from Sara Rose, and from my friends as Ally, Jo and Sara moved on without me; all the dark clouds I had been carrying suddenly lifted. I felt completely in the present moment, washed and cleansed of worry.
The conditions of the camp, however, were far from perfect. Finding my way to the foul-smelling camp lavs in the night was a hideous contrast to the divine rose garden and sandalwood-scented gathering I had just come from. Back in the tent, it was too hot to sleep and the mosquitoes had moved in with us.
In the day, I talked to many fellow travellers: Americans, Australians, Europeans; all high on being there, full of ideas and ideals about how we could change the world, how we had found divine love, unconditional, no strings, no letdowns. We would walk into town, buy samosas and delicious-tasting curry, peas and rice from roadside stalls, and talk about the meaning of life, the importance of being in the moment and the joy of living simply. I marvelled at the abundance of gurus on the streets. We saw one who sat smiling and naked under a tree. He looked as if he’d been dusted in talcum powder. Another, with garlands of flowers around his neck, stood on one leg and didn’t move at all; another lay happily in a small white tent which stank of marijuana. Others were advertised in the many posters we saw around the shops and cafés: Bai jis, satguru jis, all promising peace of mind and the way to truth. As I took it all in, I found myself wishing my old friends were there to share it all with me. I felt disappointed that I hadn’t heard from them after I had reached out. I told myself to let it go, let them go. They belonged to another era.
In the evenings, we would take our places under the night sky and listen to the guru and feel that just to be in his presence was a privilege.
Sadly the elation didn’t last, as most of the group, probably about ninety per cent, came down with amoebic dysentery. Tom and I were two of the lucky ones who escaped, but that came at its own price, which was to tend to those who had been stricken, and were passed out between tent pegs. All talk of the pleasure of the simple life was forgotten as they clenched their aching stomachs and buttocks and longed for home. All efforts that had been made to aspire to being in the here-and-now were immediately replaced by an urgent desire to be anywhere else, preferably in the future, in a place with a proper bathroom with running water and a loo that flushed.
*
When we returned to the UK, I was invited to go and live in a house that Andrew – the sandy-haired guy who I’d first heard speak in the church hall – was planning to rent with some of his followers. It would be the second commune in the city. ‘The more people who learn our teachings, the more peace and harmony there will be on the planet,’ he told me. ‘Meditation is only part of the way of life. We’re going to change the world and you can be right here in the heart of it.’
I was torn, flattered to be asked, curious about how the commune would function and still inspired by the trip to India, despite the dysentery disasters. I told myself that there would be no harm in going to find out more.
*
‘Are you out of your mind?’ said Fi. ‘Don’t do it, Mitch, please don’t. I know you; have known you all your life. You are someone who loves life too much. You mustn’t shut yourself away and cut yourself off. I can’t help but think you will regret it. This is just a phase, it will pass; don’t give up your life for this. They’ve caught you at a vulnerable time. It will pass.’
‘It’s a commune,’ I said. ‘Just a few more people than there are here in your flat, Fi.’
‘It’s a cult,’ said Lesley. ‘You’ve been brainwashed.’
‘A cult is an offshoot of a religion,’ I replied. ‘It’s not a religion. I haven’t been brainwashed, I swear, at least that’s what they told me to say.’ They didn’t laugh.
‘Vegetarian?’ Fi asked.
I nodded. ‘I might even stop shaving under my arms.’ She didn’t laugh at that either.
I called Sara to tell her my plans and for once got through. I quickly filled her in, thinking she at least would share my enthusiasm. ‘Don’t you think it would be wonderful if everyone learnt to be more conscious, instead of rushing around so much, never experiencing the
